


In the Beginning

by cosmogyral_mad_woman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Florist!lock, Fluff and Angst, Humor, M/M, Punk!John, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyral_mad_woman/pseuds/cosmogyral_mad_woman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt for muffinfreeman. The request was Florist!lock with Florist Sherlock and Punk John. It was meant to be short fluff. It's turning out to be a chapter fic. Meh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, teenlock, but both are within legal ages of consent. I may bump the rating as the story progresses, but we'll see where we go from there. So very much angst. Sorry ahead of time. I got too excited to post, so my fabulous beta has not had the chance to rein me in. All mistakes are mine. Not Britpick'd.

 Sherlock adjusted his apron and flicked off the speck of dirt that moving the Anacamptis Champagneuxii had placed there as he'd adjusted the pot. He looked at it lovingly before continuing on to move the other flowers around to gain their maximum light ranges. It was part of his morning opening routine in the greenhouse, and he took pleasure in caring for the plants before his coworker and boss, Martha Hudson, came in for the day to open the doors to customers. She'd taken him on two years previous, then 14 and incredibly bitter about being ignored by the adults and authorities in his life. After the Carl Powers incident, his family had tried to keep him quiet and under wraps. Mummy, believing that he was acting out for attention, tried to divert his interests elsewhere, but all of his focus went towards learning and what he was calling the Work. He'd been 10 years old when the Powers boy had been murdered and he'd seen it plain as the bulbous nose on the DI's face, but they had stubbornly chosen to remain blind. If he could see every detail so very clearly, why couldn't the police? After such a direct snubbing, he'd turned inward, trying to make sense of it and coming to the final conclusion that they were all idiots. Every last one of them. The only ones that he could rely on for decent conversation were his parents and brother, and they became more and more tiresome as he grew older, especially after Mycroft had left for University.

 

So, that avenue abandoned, he turned towards learning every possible thing about the world around him and deleting anything not of special interest. He was still quite happy with the discovery that one could delete whole sections of thought. He'd tested it with the building of his first mind palace, originally his room for ease of practice, before he'd had to build on extensions and then whole wings to accommodate the ever-growing burden of knowledge. The ability to delete extraneous information was heady and he'd gone through his mental property with a liberal hand. He did fear though, that his spring cleaning may have been too liberal as, in his hasty euphoria, he'd cleared a whole shelf labeled astronomy without looking. (He hoped that the lack of information didn't come back to haunt him in the future. Besides, he could always relearn it as necessary) His thirst for data had brought him to the flora and fauna of the natural world and it's uses in crime. Botany and it's many uses had brought him to the door of a failing flower shop with a battered proprietress and her abusive, murdering husband. He had tried in the beginning, valiantly, to remain as distanced from the her as he had every other person in his life, attempting to keep their interactions as solely a daily business transaction. She'd taken a liking to him, insisted that he call her Martha and gave him samples and cuttings of every plant and chemical in the place. It wasn't long before she'd refused his money and started asking questions about his discoveries, encouraging him to hang about the shop and chatter endlessly about his findings. Originally, he'd hoped that his work would be completed quickly so he could move on to other studies, but had been struck by the singular beauty of the plants in her care.

 

He watched as she'd take in stock as bruised as herself and breathe new life into it, encouraging it to thrive and arranging it into lovely sprays of color. She had a way with them, and as it turned out, himself as well. He'd learned quickly that he worked well with a receptive ear and had taken to spending his hours outside of school with her, sharing everything of note that had caught his attention. He became attached to her as well, only wincing as she gave him great, crushing hugs as the mood struck her. He'd very quickly become smitten with his charges as much as she had and would lose time in caring for them, so she had given him keys to allow him to come and go as he pleased. He'd fallen in love with the flora, especially the family orchidaceae, spending hours trying to plan out a specific splicing. He'd wait patiently for each keiki to grow large enough to root and plant. He'd even tried his hand at the micro techniques for breeding from a single cell with promising results. He'd learned to appreciate the lovely dichotomy of utter simplicity and devastating complexity that they presented to the world.

 

With the Anacamptis for example, the average and mediocre eye would judge only on appearance alone. They'd see the spindly stalk growing from a fresh green to a darker chestnut, it's hood changing from a creamy white center, blushing into pink and from there to a startling violet. They'd see the lackadaisical cant to the flower heads and call it done. They'd see, but not observe. If they only knew what each plant could tell them, they'd be just as enthralled as he. He knew their full life spans from seed to death and could chart differences in each generation. He could see it's siblings (the Green Winged and the Long Spurred Orchids), where they grew best and worse and in what conditions. He knew which plants were edible (A great deal, actually. Pansies, Nasturtiums, and Orchids, etc. All orchids, really, but Vanilla and Orchis were the most popular in haute cuisine) and which could make a body ill (Foxglove, Daffodils and Digitalis just to name a few). All of this was incredibly interesting, and that was without mentioning the mathematical connections. The Fibonacci and Lucas sequences that occurred in nature were ridiculously engrossing all by themselves. He had stumbled upon a wealth of information at Hudson's. However, he was not completely blinded by his new obsession and the long hours that it stole. Despite his conscious and repeated withdrawal from Martha, he couldn't help but notice her husband's nefarious deeds, watching his late night movements from the shop's windows. After much debate and reassurance, he had talked her through the process of turning Mr. Hudson in and how to optimally protect herself from incrimination. He'd helped her to scrape together money to keep the shop going and had dedicated himself to making the business thrive.

 

She'd insisted, despite his initial refusal, that he become a paid employee for his efforts. He had quickly convinced her that he was not one for customer care after a particularly disastrous occasion where he'd quite happily deduced that the gentleman flirting with Martha was, indeed, purchasing flowers for both his mistress and third wife. He was then relegated to arrangement and assisting Martha with the back of house aspects of the business as her order level increased. Now, two years later, she ran a well-respected shop and greenhouse. Her flowers won awards and her arrangements were featured in magazines. The business was now big enough that Sherlock was able to be completely dedicated to the plants and their care, leaving Mrs. Hudson and her insipid staff to deal with the general public. The staff knew to leave him be after their initial introductions, doing their level best to use Martha as their intermediary, of which he approved.

 

He heard the inane jingle of the bells above the front door chime and a chipper call of, “Sherlock!” before seeing Martha's head pop around the corner. “There you are!”

 

“And where else would I be?” He replied drily, raising an eyebrow at her before turning back to smooth the fresh soil over the base of the re-potted Clusius's Peony in front of him. Mrs. Hudson leaned in close, looking on and clucking her tongue.

 

“That poor thing will be lucky to make it after Alexis dropped it last night. But, if anyone can save it, it would be you.” She smiled up at him before patting him on the shoulder and turning away towards her office. The others would be in soon, with their nattering and gum snapping, but for the moment, he had the place just the way he liked it. Over the stereo system the sounds of Clara Schumann's Piano Concerto in A minor drifted through the mist. After extensive study, he had provided a mix of Debussy, Brahms and Chopin as well as other various masters that he played in intervals throughout the day to help stimulate plant growth. The front of house workers complained about it incessantly, especially Sally. They wanted to play BritPop. They didn't want to hear this “old, dead dude crap” as she'd so charmingly phrased it the day before. Thankfully, Martha had agreed with him, cutting his rant about plant growth rate comparisons from classical versus pop music short before he could gather any steam. She'd gone on about customer preferences and other nonsense, but had backed him, and that was the important bit.

 

It had caused Sally to glare harder at him than usual, but he countered it happily with a deeply smug expression as he cranked Clare de Lune a couple of levels louder than his standard. The plants seemed to respond well to about 190 Htz, but weren't as affected as such by increased volume over a short period of time, so he'd reveled in his victory. He might bump up the front of house speakers a bit higher just to give her a head ache today. Cheered at the thought, he hummed along to Beethoven as he churned the compost. It was always soothing when it was just Martha and himself. They'd spent many hours alone together over the last couple of years, he lost in thought while she did paperwork or was elbow deep in soil next to him. Today was a red letter day as it marked the start of the summer holidays, and he could finally spend his time in the warm mistiness of the greenhouse for as long as he'd like. School had forced him to cut his hours dramatically and he'd chafed at the restrictions. Martha had been insistent that he keep his grades high or she'd cut his hours further, so he'd forced patience for the sake of his Work. He'd just about finished his opening chores when Mrs. Hudson called him into her office.

 

As he walked in she sighed deeply, fixing him with a square look and he rolled his eyes. He could read the stress in the tightened skin around her eyes and mouth. Her general posture was stiffer than usual, regaling him with her firmed resolve. She had the large stack of supplier's invoices immediately to her left and the telephone was pulled closer to her seat on the right.

 

“Let me guess; Alexis is coming late and you need to make calls. You want me to run the front while you do it. No. I think it would be best if you ring Sally to come in earlier.” He turned towards the office door and the Clematis Alpina that was needing his attentions. A sharp throat clearing stopped him in his tracks.

 

“Sally's mother has a weekly doctor's appointment, as you know. She can't possibly be here before half one. The mulch supplier has shorted us, again, and I need to call get him to come back out today. I'd let you make the calls, but I want to actually keep my suppliers, so you _will_ cover the front for me for the next hour. If you continue being a recalcitrant child, I will leave you there all day. Understood?”

 

Sherlock hung his head. He knew that tone. Martha was a rather laid back woman. She'd allowed a lot from him, no matter how hard he pushed at her boundaries. She'd lost many an employee to his sulks and deductions and had, after much scowling, scolded him and pulled her list of applications. But when that hint of steel touched her voice, however, he knew that she would not take no for an answer. The last time that they'd clashed wills, he'd walked out instead of manning the counter. She'd changed the locks in retaliation and he'd lost an entire experiment, a week's worth of cultivation. He'd since learned to pick locks, which she knew, and he feared for his youngest generation of Cephalanthera Longifolia/Dactylorhiza Cruenta hybrids. He rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling and groaned.

 

“One hour. No more.”

 

He heard her stand and walk to him, pecking a kiss lightly on his cheek before pushing him out of the room. “Off you pop.”

 

Disgruntled, he glanced at the clock to find that he had 5 minutes until it was time to unlock the doors. He sighed and walked through the neatly tended aisles of his sanctuary and to the front of house. Martha insisted that all morning orders be completed as well as a full clean up at the end of the work day, so he did not need to do much more than pull the cash till from the safe and unlock the doors. He glanced into the arrangement cooler to find a dozen filled orders, their tags printed neatly with name, pick up times and payment status. The majority, thankfully, were set to be delivered so he would only have to deal with three face-to-face interactions before Martha or Alexis arrived to relieve him. The first of which was an incredibly boring and monochromatic funeral piece of calla lilies, white snapdragons and eucalyptus in a vase. In and of itself, it was poorly arranged, but the garishly large sunflower added to the mix was comical in its vulgarity. He knew Alexis' work from the haphazard groupings, and feeble attempt at individuality. He pulled it out of the case, glaring at the offending helianthus, and in his mind's eye it seemed to glare back. He plucked it from the vase and set it aside before fiddling with the placement of stems in an attempt to make it appear more organic in symmetry. Alexis was shite at this. Martha was convinced that she had promise, but, judging from this work of art and her general bent towards tardiness, her home life was getting worse and would most likely be quitting soon. He'd have to pass along the observation to Martha when she came up. The clamor of the bells above the door drew a glance from his work, but after a quick perusal and subsequent dismissal (male, early twenties, just over one and one half meters, blonde, works at a record store, two visible piercings, dressed in the typical punk style, in need of a hair cut), he returned to his work. He heard the clomp of boots over the floor tiles approach and stop opposite him. Ignoring the clearing of a throat, he placed the last calla lily into it's intended spot and glanced up, making brief eye contact with a pair of vaguely amused gray-blue eyes, before grabbing the vase and setting it aside.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Your mum know that you're messing with that?”

 

“Excuse me?” Sherlock reared back to glare at the man in front of him, ice dripping from the words.

 

“Did she go to the loo, leave you here?”

 

“And why, pray tell, would you think that?” He asked, the condescension thick in his voice.

 

The youth raised his eyebrows at the tone, a small smirk on his face. “It's obvious you don't want to be here, but your mum needed someone here, yeah? Keep punks like me from robbing the place blind?” He gestured to the counters of blooms and merchandise, turning back to quirk an eyebrow at Sherlock the smirk growing into a crooked grin. “Don't worry. I won't tell her that your screwing with the product. I know how it is having to work for family.”

 

Sherlock blinked, his eyes snapping from staring at the blonde's mouth and absorbing his words. He wrinkled his brow in frustration at the distraction. “Martha Hudson is not my mother.” He puffed up his chest, rolling his shoulders back and tilting his chin up to look down his nose at the other man. “I work here. And I was not, how did you phrase it? 'Screwing with the product'. I was correcting the obvious and painful mistakes of a untalented hack who wouldn't know the first thing about optimizing visual aesthetics. Not to mention the inappropriateness of adding a sunflower of all things into an arrangement meant for a funeral. And they say that I have no understanding of social niceties.” The last was said at a mumble, the rant leaving him a bit breathless. He scowled at the blonde, daring him to say anything else that might incur Sherlock's wrath. Granted, it wouldn't take much to do so. He took a breath to begin again, preparing to tear this man apart, eyes darting to take in the momentary shock before it morphed into the expected outrage.

 

The outrage did not come. Instead, the man's face, incredibly easy to read, changed to incredulity and genuine amusement. Sherlock stared in amazement, watching as he began to laugh, folding slightly as his eyes closed and crinkled in their delight. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should be offended or proud. He was completely confused. Eventually, the laughter died to chuckles and the youth straightened, wiping at his eyes.

 

“Hey, whatever floats your boat, man. I'm just here to pick up flowers for my mum's uncle's funeral. I'm John, by the way.”

 

Sherlock glowered at John, unsure how to retaliate, his mouth opening and closing at his initial responses. He huffed a breath and shoved the vase at his elbow at John, the water sloshing against its sides. “Here. Take them.”

 

John licked his lower lip, and cocked his head to the side. “How do you know that's mine? I haven't told you the name yet.”

 

“You just said you were here to pick up flowers for a funeral. I only have the one funeral pick up. Besides, based on your fashion choices,” He sneered and gestured to the military boots, tight black trousers, black peacoat and black turtleneck peeking from the black scarf. The only color to relieve from all of the black were the silver loop of chains glinting against his right hip and the silver rings in his right nostril and left eyebrow. “even if you weren't on your way to a funeral, you'd be rather uncomfortable in any other color. Unless of course your here for the other pick up scheduled for opening.” Sherlock gestured towards the case at the pastel monstrosity within. It was enough to give one a toothache with its pink Asiatic lilies, yellow carnations, lavender cushion spray chrysanthemums, yellow spray roses and pink roses. As if that wasn't enough, it was in a lavendar plastic vase tied with a pink bow. It was a popular number amongst bosses attempting to generate extracurricular activites with their secretaries or to apologize to their wives for the same. "You don't seem the type. Of course, I could be wrong." Sherlock tilted his head at John as if inviting him to contradict his statement. 

 

John smiled, mildly impressed, and nodded. “Yeah. I guess that tracks. Any way-”

 

Sherlock, disconcerted and frankly, a little flustered, at the lack of expected reaction grunted in irritation. “Fine. Furthermore, you own a dog, most likely a Golden Retriever. You spend a lot of time around smokers, yet you, yourself, do not smoke. Your father, I'd bet. You don't get on with him or your mother too well, but you are on good terms with your older sister. You work at a record store, though the money is not quite good enough to cover public transportation or replacements in your wardrobe. You live near the water and you have no current love interests.” He finished the last with a flourish and a pleased smile.

 

John stood, blinking and gaping at him, mouth working like a goldfish. It took him a moment to regain his composure, shifting his weight from foot to foot and crossing and uncrossing his arms. _Much better_ , Sherlock thought. The explosion would come anytime now and then he'd be left alone, as he preferred. Once again, John surprised him, his face resolving in to an expression of bemusement. “Did Greg put you up to this?”

 

“Greg?”

 

“Yeah, my mate Greg. He called you, didn't he? I'm surprised he didn't come in to watch. I once paid a fortune teller to tell him that he had an STD.”

 

It was Sherlock's turn to gape like a landed fish, eyes blinking, brows contracting and relaxing and nose wrinkling. He couldn't have heard that correctly. The gears in his mind seemed to grind for a moment and he heard himself repeat, “An STD?” before doing a wonderful impression of a broken record starting with, “No, no.” a pause and then, “No.” before his mind finally came back online. “Why would you think that this Greg of yours called me?”

 

“For one, it sounds like something he'd do. He's cross with me for helping my mom today after the fight we had last night and for getting him to drive me about town to do so. Besides, how could you know all of that without someone telling you?”

 

Sherlock puffed up again, his pride coming to the fore. “I don't need anyone to tell me, I can see it on you as plain as day.”

 

“How?” There was nothing but curiosity in John's voice

 

“Simple deductions. I read it in your clothing, your face and your manner.”

 

John gestured for him to continue, and Sherlock, never above showing off, jumped to tell him, if only for the chance to prove himself correct.

 

“The dog is easy; there are golden-red hairs approximately five centimeters in length on your trousers ending at about knee height. Indicative of a dog, the length says a longer haired breed, likely a Golden Retriever. I can see that you don't smoke by the lack of staining on your fingers and teeth, but the scent of cigarette smoke on your clothing is not only fairly strong but also stale which probably means a smoker that you currently live with. It has a hint of menthol to it, which tells me that this person has smoked for a while and needs the menthol to sooth the pain from years of damage. It was more of a guess that it's your father, but not one that you don't get on with either parent. The piercing in your left eyebrow is a home job. Professionals would use a boring needle to pierce, leaving a smooth edge of skin around the site. They'd also do a better job of aligning and placing the piercing. Home jobs are typically done with a safety pin and leave a puckered appearance. Yours also happens to be slightly crooked. If you got on with your parents, or at least if they'd approved the piercing to begin with, you'd have gone to a professional. That is not a new piercing, telling me that you have not had good relations with them for quite some time. I know that you have a sister, older, who you are in good standing with because she obviously assisted you with the piercing in your right nostril. It's still a home job, but it's not crooked and has a better overall placement. I say older sister, because a younger would not have as steady of a hand. I say sister because a brother would not think to assist you and males are typically less likely to be as meticulous with the job itself.

 

“Your work, however, was a bit more tricky to read. You have ink stains on your fingers as well as the scent that one would usually associate with a book store. However, the pervasive scent of rubbing alcohol would belie that statement. I say record store based on the observation of the alcohol and by the wood glue still adhering to the edges of your finger nails. You don't see those in use as much on a book store, so record shop it is. The fact that it doesn't pay well is in evidence in the wear on the soles of your boots. You walk a great deal, from a water front location as the layers of accumulated mud would attest. The amount of walking means that you can't afford or won't budget in the cost of public transportation. There is a hastily stitched tear in your second hand trousers. If they were intended to appear worn or if you'd torn it as part of a fashion statement, it have been in a more obvious place, repaired carefully and with some other adornment to call attention to it. There is not enough money to replace them easily, so they must be repaired for repeated use. Lastly, you do not have a current love interest. If you did, you'd have taken more care in your general appearance, specifically the choice of clothing, use of cologne or evening up the edges of your facial hair. You'd do all of these if your aim was to impress a new possible conquest, or to maintain a current one. You could be in an established relationship that has become more comfortable, read stagnant, but that is not likely because someone would have mentioned that there are drips of dried curry at least a couple of days old on your scarf.”

 

John's response was to blink at him before that damned smile came climbing back out. “That was brilliant! Much better than the fortune teller I hired to embarrass Greg. Have you considered working for a side show? I bet you'd make a lot of cash.”

 

Sherlock's jaw simply dropped. Did the moron not realize that he'd been insulted? Before he could reply, a car's horn blared in the quiet of Baker St, startling the occupants of the shop.

 

“Greg, the tosser.” John muttered, “Any way. I should be going. You should come 'round the record shop. I'd love to introduce you to a few of my mates, have you try your parlor trick on them. It'd be hilarious.” He grabbed the vase, waved towards Sherlock's frozen and incredulous frame and left the store, shouting abuse at the young man behind the wheel of a 1979 British racing green Mini Cooper. Just before the door closed, he popped his head back in briefly, grinning and chuckling, “Seriously. Come 'round. Your schtick is fantastic.” The click of the latch was audible.

 

Silence

 

How they could hear one another over the stereo system, thumping some inane, popular punk band, he had no idea. As the door slammed shut, his mind thawed and he shouted towards it, “It's not a parlor trick!” before falling into sullen silence.

 

Pop

 

 

“Schtick. I am not a boardwalk performer, shamming for pence. Parlor tricks. Ridiculous.”

 

 

Catch

 

Sherlock scraped together enough active gray matter to force a manual restart on the blue screen of death that currently faced his mind's eye. He closed his mouth with a snap and rolled his shoulders in an attempt release the tension in his muscles. He dropped onto the stool behind the counter suddenly exhausted, replaying the conversation. His attention fell onto the abandoned sunflower lying on the counter, water pooled at the base of the stem. He dragged a finger through the drops, making random patterns on the formica, eyes watching the trail bead and eventually evaporate. His mind slowly began to turn over the exchange, trying to extrapolate more data but it seemed beyond his capabilities at that moment. John had thrown him, no doubt about that. He'd avoided the set expectations with ease, hurdling Sherlock's coping mechanisms. A deduction had never ended that way before. They'd either gone pale and fled or started raging at him. Regardless of the outcome, he'd won each and every verbal sparring match that he'd instigated. John however-

 

The jingle of the door bell snapped through his thoughts as sharp and vicious as a lightening strike. All of his scrutiny fell upon the stern looking woman (well to do, mid forties, three children, bitter and unhappily married, type a personality) watching him expectantly. “I'm here for the Water's order. Is it done? Last time they hadn't finished and it looked atrocious.”

 

He turned to the case for the small vase of lavendar and hydrangea. A small, cold smile twitched its way onto Sherlock's face before it faded to his coldest, most condescending mask. He turned back to her placing the vase easily within her reach.

 

“Ms. Waters. Your order is in fact properly completed. Though I am sure that fact must be cold comfort knowing as you do that no matter how beautiful the flowers look, they can't cover up the utter disappointment that your husband must feel when he sees you at home and not his mistress. Have a wonderful day.” The rictus grin spread across his face, a striking parody. She snatched the vase, red faced and stormed out the door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the glass in the window panes.

 

He'd barely had time to draw breath before a young man (early twenties, single, hopeful love interest, desperate) strolled in dressed in what he thought was 'date clothes', gaze wandering around the blooms. He walked to the counter, and opened his mouth to ask assistance.

 

“It doesn't matter. She won't sleep with you. Get out.”

 

The man looked stricken, pale and gawping, quickly turned and left the store. The next customer was the proud owner of the pastel monster still in the case that he had used to taunt John. She was a sweet looking older woman, sporting a pink cardigan, a gray skirt and reading glasses on a golden chain. Sherlock felt vague regret in tearing her apart, the words flying like venom and hitting their mark solidly. He barely heard his rant, his mind detaching as his mouth ran marathons. By the time he was done, she was clutching her flowers, sobbing wretchedly and wobbling towards the door to where Alexis stood, wide eyed and shocked. She gently helped the woman outside before rounding on him.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, you should be ashamed of yourself.”

 

He scoffed and took in a breath to spew yet more vitriol at this new target before he heard the disappointed sigh coming from the doorway to the greenhouse. Immediately, everything dropped. His eyes fluttered closed and his chin fell to his chest as his breath rushed from his lungs. He was left empty, the emotions so cloying and choking the second before, gone. He was left with a sense of despair so perfect, so sharp, it felt as if his insides were being flayed. He turned slowly towards Mrs. Hudson, keeping his eyes on his shoes and not daring to even read her body language. He slunk from the front of the shop back to his sanctuary of warmth and mist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's POV. There's someone that he just can't get out of his mind...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the love and thank you's to quietborderline and Miss Kitten for the massive amounts of support. I'm sorry that this took so long to get out, but I hope that it satisfies.

“Oh, come on, pull the other one.” Greg shot him a disbelieving look before returning his attention to the road. 

“No, really. This bloke was legitimate. At first, I thought that you had set it all up, but no one is that good of an actor.” John chuckled, remembering the look of offended incredulity on the kid's face when he'd proposed that he'd gotten his information elsewhere. “It was really, pretty amazing. I told him to come round the record shop sometime. Maybe he'll get a chance to try his super power out on you.” John waggled his eyebrows suggestively at his friend. 

Greg laughed and stopped at John's parent's house to drop him off. He turned and clapped John on the shoulder before he could get out of the car. “Good luck today, mate. Let me know if you want to meet for a pint, after. I can meet you at the pub.”

John gave him an appreciative glance before clamoring out of the Mini with the flowers and walking up the steps of his childhood home in Lisson Grove. Taking a fortifying breath, he opened the door with his one free hand before walking into the madness that was his family. 

\---------------- 

A few excruciating hours later, as if the funeral itself was not enough, he'd endured comments on his piercings, fashion, lack of a girlfriend and generally being a disappointment to his family at large. After dodging one last fight, he had finally pried himself away from the clutches of his parent's house and made his way back to the flat that he and Greg had signed the paperwork for the day prior. He'd stopped long enough to call Greg's pager, leaving the message 2337; their agreed upon code for meeting at the closest pub for a beer. There was a quiet little dive at the end of Robert street that they tended to gravitate towards and it was there that they went well after dusk. 

John downed his first pint quickly, anxious for the yeasty brew to calm the jangle of his thoughts. Greg, knowing his friend well, slid his own pint across the table while signaling their waitress for another round. He waited patiently, cracking open one of the peanuts the pub provided. John would share or not share as he felt inclined. Pushing was not part of their friendship, nor would it ever be. John took a large gulp of the new pint before pushing it slightly away and reaching for the bowl of peanuts. They sat for a while in silence, eating their salty legumes and sipping at their stouts. It was too late for a match, but there was a replay of a Chelsea game on the telly over the bar, adding the occasional shouts of the footballers and the smooth voices of the commentators to the room. 

The steady crack of shells and thunks from glasses being set down was familiar and soothing. The knots in John's muscles began to unravel, his shoulders falling from their perch round his ears. He took a deep breath and sighed it out, feeling grounded and comfortable in his own skin again. His family had a knack for making him feel itchy and restless. He hadn't been able to shake the sensation all day, seeing as he was surrounded by them. His only saving grace was the knowledge that he had the flat to go back to. It didn't matter that it was still full of boxes, that his mattress was on the floor nor that it had a bit of an odd smell to it. It was his (well, theirs, but the point was still the same), and it was away. It felt amazing to be out from under that roof. His parents were suffocating in their rather late attempts to “make something of him”. They didn't approve of his choice of employment and lack of interest in furthering his education. They thought he was on the fast track to becoming a hooligan, a common street tough. The thought was laughable. They felt his interest in music and music culture was frivolous. Sure, he'd had good marks, great really, but he had no passion for anything particularly scholarly.

Except for music. It didn't even matter what kind or where it came from. If it had a beat, he was interested. The concept of music, how, like water, it could twist and turn and change. Knowing that it could morph from African American folk music, to Blues, to Jazz, to Rock and Roll to Ska, to Punk... It was dizzying, when you could see the connections. Honestly, the concept (and feeling) was akin to how the kid that he had met earlier had left him reeling. The tall, dark, curly haired boy that had told him his entire life story after seeing him for five minutes. John smirked at the memory. He'd thought about him a few times throughout the day, pulling out the memory whenever the thought of his new sanctuary wasn't enough to soothe the burn of familial ire. He chuckled, remembering the look of shock and frustration on his face as John had left the store. He wanted to know what the response would have been. Greg, curious at his laughter, glanced away from the telly to take in his mirth. 

“You're thinking about him again.”

John glanced up at his friend, blinking his thoughts away. 

“Huh?”

“You made the same face just now that you did in the car earlier. Kind of an amused, intrigued face. You had one just like it for Her. I recognize the symptoms.” Greg's slow grin put John on the defensive. “You like the flower boy. Admit it.”

John couldn't stop the heat from staining his cheeks, nor his uncomfortable squirming. Glowering at his chortling companion, he took a handful of peanuts and threw them at the wide open target. Greg was able to bat away all but one, the tiny missile bouncing off of his incisors.

“Oi! Stop wasting the nibbles!” Greg said, hiding his face behind his hands, the grin still obvious in his voice. 

"If you're going to be a wanker, I'm going home."

Greg stood with him, tossing a few notes onto the table and following him out of the door. The brisk night air was refreshing after the smokiness of the pub, helping to clear his lungs as well as his mind. 

“They brought up Mary again.”

He heard Greg's sigh behind him before he felt a warm hand clap him on the shoulder. 

“They always do. Bastards.”

\----------------

Yawning, John propped his bicycle against the side of Vintage Records and took another sip of his tea before reaching for the keys to the building. The sun had risen hours earlier, but the air still held the crisp qualities of dawn and it looked to be a sunny, clear day for a change. He'd promised Marcus cover for the open, but as it was technically his day off, his shift was rather short. If all went to plan, he'd be out by twelve and able to enjoy the brilliance of the afternoon. Life had settled back into it's normal routines and he'd been able to unpack his things into the flat over the last couple of days. Granted, that meant that he had clothes vaguely shoved towards the wardrobe and a couple of posters had been tacked to the wall, but the flat was gradually feeling more home-like. 

Frankly, it was a bit odd having so much quiet in his home. He was so used to the sounds of living with other people, having to modulate his music, avoid any lengthy encounters outside of his room. It was refreshing to live with Greg, who spent a great deal of time out of the flat with the Initial Police Learning and Development Programme and all that it entailed. (He'd made it half way though his two year probationary period with the MET and was killing the curve for everyone else. He'd make a good cop some day, John was sure.)

John went through the motions of setting up the shop for customers, pulling the till, checking the sections for misplaced genres, and getting his play list ready for the morning. The last was his favorite part of opening. He had complete creative control on what played throughout his shifts. He could spin anything that he wanted and he loved taking advantage of that. Each day was different and he loved wandering through the isles and plucking records at random to experience what they contained. This approach brought both wonderful and shite results, of course, but he'd never been one to make a decision solely based on other people's opinions. He was the type who had to see what he would see and come to his own conclusions. It made for rather eclectic tastes in all matters of his life. He set the EP onto the platter and flipped the on switch. Absently glancing at the clock, he lowered the tone arm to rest the needle on the first track. He unlocked the doors as the first strains of The Specials' Ghost Town filtered through the speakers. Ahhh, Bliss.

Retreating behind the counter, he busied himself with going through the cleaning inbox, setting aside the worst of the vinyl for deep cleaning. He wasn't expecting any serious customers for at least an hour, so he had time to set the wood glue to dry on the first batch. The rest could be cleaned with an alcohol solution during slow periods. The most time consuming, and rewarding, if he were honest, were the deep cleans. It was mindless work, smearing the liquid onto the cracks and grooves, and it gave him time to ponder his day or whatever problem was foremost in his mind. The glue typically took about a day to dry, so he had plenty of time to prep them and peel away the skin from yesterday's batch. Being able to easily compare the dirty side to the clean when he was finished was gratifying. 

The bells above the door rang and he glanced up, calling out a greeting. Jimmy, the resident audiophile, sauntered in giving him a nod. Jimmy was a few years his younger, the kid spending all of his free time outside of school at the shop talking sound. He gave John the creeps, frankly, but he knew his music. He wandered over to the new releases and thumbed through the covers before coming over to watch John spread glue over each of the records. John had set up the side counter for his operating room, the loose platters staged evenly over the newspaper encompassing the glass. He could prep four at a time before having to move them to a safer shelf to dry. It was a system that he'd learned from Marcus when he'd started at the shop a couple of years previous. Prep, peel, prep until the storage shelf was full. It had used to take him forever to get it done properly. Now, he swept along meticulously in tiny circles, covering the vinyl and leaving only the tiniest slivers of space between the tacky substance and the paper label, quick as a wink. Placing a pull tab onto his finished product he moved on, flicking his gaze up at Jimmy who seemed mesmerized by his work.

“Alright, Jimmy?”

Jimmy peered up at him through his lashes, flashing a quick grin. If it had been on anyone else, John might have called it 'flirty'. With Jimmy, it was just weird. He'd opened his mouth to reply when the jangle of the door bell snatched John's attention, his greeting dying in his throat. 'The Flower Shop Boy' as Greg had since termed him, stepped past the threshold, eyes darting about. His inspection ended when he caught sight of John watching him. He quirked an eyebrow before wandering towards the classical section. Jimmy cleared his throat, reminding John of his presence and breaking him from his scrutiny. John reached for the damp towel near by and sent Jimmy an apologetic glance. “Be right back, Jim. Hold that thought.”

He dimly registered the look of frustrated consternation on the kid's face as hurried past. Pausing a couple of bays away, he waved a bit to catch the boy's eye, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “How can I help you?”

Fascinated, he watched a flush crawl up and along the boy's neck as he purposefully tried to ignore John. Oh, this was rich. His mouth quirking, he took a couple of steps closer and tried again. “ Did you need any help?”

The young man shot him glare that could have cut glass, “I am a customer. I am allowed to be here. I am allowed to look.” his lip curled, “I promise not to 'screw with the product'.”

A chuckle broke from John's throat, his grin no longer contained. He shuffled closer to stand next to the boy as he thumbed from record to record. He leaned back against the shelving to look at the kid's face as he studiously avoided meeting John's gaze. He'd cast little flicks to read John's expression, before snapping back to the vinyl. John crossed his arms and grinned, staying silent and watchful. The kid thought John was harassing him to get revenge for the flower shop, he was sure of it. This could be fun. He may not have 'flower boy's' supper power but he did know music.

He turned his head to address Jimmy, but kept his sight fixed on his new customer. “Give me a minute, Jim. I have to keep an eye on this one.” John stifled a chuckle, watching as the boy's back went ramrod straight and his concentration seemed to sharpen even though he'd paused in his movements. 

“Oh. Okay. I- okay.” Jim sounded rather put out. He could hear grumbling, but not the words themselves. 

“He looks like the dangerous type and I'd hate to let a hoodlum ransack the place. I'm sure I'd never hear the end of it.” John felt the fury radiating from the curly haired youth, but he continued valiantly in his attempt to pay John no mind. 

“Besides, only the worst street toughs would purposefully avoid the assistance of a well trained and far superior employee when offered help, especially when they, themselves are out of their depth. It could only mean that they have trouble in mind.”

He watched, eyes dancing, as those light eyes darkened dangerously, as his mouth worked without producing any sound. One more little push should do the trick...

“I mean, why else would you avoid properly introducing yourself to someone once, let alone twice? There has got to be a nefarious reason behind the snub. Right, Mister...?” John held his breath and counted slowly. 1...His hands were trembling. 2... Jaw clenched hard. 3... Eyes clamped closed. 4... He looked ready to pop. 5... Ah, here it comes.

“Sherlock! My name is Sherlock! You illiterate, incompetent loblolly!”

Bingo.

“Sherlock! Pleasure to meet you! How can I help you today?” John laid it on thick, his grin and smothered laughter slurring his words. Sherlock's face went slack, his eyes dimming slightly. He took a shaking breath and pulled himself together, chin thrusting high and lips compressed into a tight line.

“I require assistance with an experiment measuring the efficacy of various recording techniques and how they pertain to plant growth.” His voice was filled with frost and an interesting hint, just a tendril, of insecurity. Deciphering the words, John gave Sherlock a good once over. The gangly youth was still holding himself rigid, all but vibrating with emotion. Did he ever relax? Over his shoulder was a bag filled with books and a neatly folded green apron peeking from the opened corner of the zip. Looking up into Sherlock's defiant glare, he uncrossed his arms and stood.

“I assume you want to use vinyl as one of your test mediums? Where do I come in?”

Sherlock gave him a haughty look. “What makes you think that I need you, specifically?”

“Well, you did come here. There are loads of shops that you could patronize. You chose to come to the one where I work. Of all the gin joints in all the world, yeah?”

Sherlock looked confused for a moment. “Gin joints?”

John scratched the corner of his eye, cocking his head at the other boy. “Casablanca?” No response. “Popular culture?”

“Ah. Irrelevant. I deleted it.” He seemed proud of himself for that odd comment. John had to ask.

“Wait. You deleted it? What does that mean?” 

“I delete superfluous information from my mind palace. I dislike mental clutter.”

“Ah, okay. Whatever that means. What do you need from me?” John squinted at him. Sherlock broke eye contact with him to look over John's shoulder. John turned to find Jimmy standing just behind him staring daggers at the dark haired boy. 

“Jimmy?” John turned to face him, sending a questioning look.

“John. Can I talk to you for a moment?” He couldn't seem to stop staring at Sherlock. John couldn't blame him. The kid was more than a little magnetic. Though Jimmy had some how upped the creep factor this time. 

“Can it wait? I'm with a customer?” John frowned as Jimmy shook his head emphatically. 

“No. It's really important.”

He sighed. “Hold on a mo, Sherlock. I'll be right back.”

He followed Jimmy back to the counter, crossing his arms again. “What's up?”

“I'm going to ask out my crush. What do you think would be the best music for a first date?”

“Wait. Really? Come on, Jimmy.” John sighed, frustrated. “Marcus is cool with you hanging out here as long as you don't interfere with business. I'm with a customer-” The jingle of the bells and the slam of the door had him turning to watch as Sherlock sprinted out and down the pavement, apron strings waving like streamers behind him. “Dammit.” His fingers rubbed at the headache forming behind his temples. “See what you did? Now I'll have to go find him.”

“Do you know him?” Jimmy looked suspicious and, oddly, jealous.

“Kind of. Yes. Not really. Maybe.” He grinned. “It seems that way, doesn't it?”

Jimmy scowled. “I gotta go. I have a thing.”

Huffing out a laugh, John waved him away. “See you later.”

The EP ended and John turned to set up Cake's Motorcade of Generosity to play over the speakers and finish coating the records in glue, listening to the door slam and bells go again. 

“What the bloody hell are you doing to your customers, Johnny?” John started and turned to see his sister sporting postbox red hair and a rumpled looking little black dress, or LBD as she loved to refer to it, and leaning against the counter nearest the door. “I just saw two people running out of here like their hair was on fire.” 

He smirked. “Well, you would know.”

She shot him an unamused look and snagged his abandoned and stone cold tea to drain, her face changing to one of disgust. “Your tea is cold.”

He laughed. “It does happen from time to time. You shouldn't drink other people's tea.”

“Where's the fun in that?” She cocked her hip out and posed dramatically. John rolled his eyes and went back to his task.

“And what brings you in this early in the morning, Harry?”

“Early? You mean, you've gone to bed? I have a life, little brother.” She reached into her top and from god knew where, procured a cigarette and lighter.

“Harry.” He warned, grimacing. 

Pouting, she put them away. “Kill joy. So?”

Confused, he peered at her.

“The running of the teenaged bulls?” She gestured towards the large picture window.

Snickering, he shook his head. “Well, Jim is Jim. Mad as a loon. The other was... Sherlock.” He paused, squinting at her before busying himself with the records. “I met him the day of the funeral. He works at the flower shop in Baker Street.”

“Wait. That's Flower Shop Boy?”

His head spun to look at her so fast, he felt a little dizzy. “What?”

She looked briefly guilty. “I called your flat earlier to find you. Greg told me to tease you about him.” She flattened her palms onto the glass counter and leaned in, forcing eye contact. “Rather fit, don't you think?”

He yawned pointedly. “Bit young, don't you think?”

A sinful and toothy smile dashed across her features. “For one us, maybe.” 

He scoffed and placed another sticky record onto its shelf. “Did you fall and hit your head last night?”

When he turned back, she looked pensive. “Hmmm... You might be right, though. He did seem rather vanilla for my tastes.”

“Oh, really? How do you figure that?”

“He ran out of here as if he was being chased, looked absolutely terrified. What did you say to make him so skittish? Offer him a bit of 'how's your father'?”

Pityingly, he shook his head. “There is something fundamentally wrong with you. It's a good thing that you were adopted, or I'd be more worried for my own sanity.”

She threw the glue-y towel at him for the implication. “If I was, I wouldn't complain, mind you. Our parents are touched in the head. Seriously, though. What happened? He looked in a panic.”

Frustrated, John ran a clean hand through his hair. “I don't have a bleedin' clue. He came in, we were talking fine and Jimmy interrupted. Next thing I know, he's legging it. He had started to ask for help with a project or something, but he didn't get a chance to finish.”

She perked up, “Ooooooh. A project, eh?” She waltzed her way around the counter humming to herself, snagged him by the waist of his trousers and yanked him out of its horseshoe to dance him about the shop. 

“A project?” She spun him from the circle of her arms only to whip him back to her. 

“A project!” She cried, weaving through the isles.

Suddenly, she dipped him. “What kind of project do you think he needs your... help... with, Johnny?”

He heaved a long suffering sigh, allowing her to hold him in the dip, amusement shining in his eyes. “I think it had something to do measuring plant growth.”

She waggled her eyebrows.

“No. Just measuring the plants.”

Her answering sigh held far more exasperation than had his own. She lifted him back to his feet, her mouth screwing up and to the right. “Hrmmm... And you're sure that he wasn't on the pull? You do tend to be rather oblivious when people try to chat you up. It's adorable, really.” She pinched his cheek. He took the offending hand and used it pull her close and tango them towards the door. 

“I'm sure.” He gave her one good spin before releasing her next to the front entry. “Harry. It's always a pleasure.” He raised an eyebrow.

“But you need to be boring and work. Fine. But if I am right, and I always am, he fancies you. Go and find your Flower Shop Boy. Call me later, after you talk to Sherwood, or whatever his name is.” She gave him a peck on the cheek and flounced away. He stared after her, pensive.

\-----------

It was quiet for a bit after Harry left, only the music keeping his thoughts company. Sherlock... Why had he run? Especially before he'd finished asking for help? Bloody Jim, for scaring him away. But, what if Harry was right? What if what she had said was true? John was rather dim when it came to those kind of situations and the thought itself was not an unpleasant one. Regardless, he did want to help, if he could. Setting the last record on the shelf to dry, John cleaned his hands and tided the counters. Irritated by his circular thinking, he worked through the rest of the inbox and puttered around the store, helping the few customers that came through. By twelve, he was bored senseless and unable to avoid introspection. When Julia strolled in, he was already packing his rucksack and pulling out his bike lock key. By the time he'd made it into Regent's park, he was pedaling hard and fast, using the exercise to clear his mind and hoping that it might push some new insight to the fore. 

As he pulled up to his block of flats, he came to a decision. Harry was right, at least partially. Sherlock had obviously wanted something and had specifically searched John out, whether he himself realized it or not. John should find him and offer his assistance. Well, with the music part at least. Not that he would phrase it that way, of course. The boy really did not seem the type to take help easily. Chuckling to himself, he turned his bike around and headed towards Baker Street hoping to find a madman with a flower box. 

“Sherlock.”


End file.
